Once Upon A Hangover
by Nata
Summary: Collins has gone missing and a very hungover Angel ... attempts to go find him. Rated for language and Angel's dirty little mind.
1. Default Chapter

This was started at four AM and kinda happened. So it doesn't really have a plot. It was my feeble attempt at humor ... Yikes. Sheild your eyes. XD   
  
Obviously, nothing but the computer I write this on and my kitty is mine. Sue me and you'll get pocket lint. :o) 


	2. In Which Angel Doesn't Get Along With In...

Angel was bored.   
  
And suffering from a hang over.   
  
Really, really bored.   
  
"Collins!" The Very Bored And Hung Over Angel whined, tilting his head from the ceiling to look pitifully at his lover. Rather, he would've looked at him if he had been there in the first place. He'd been there a few moments ago. Well, she thought he had. It was possible that she'd zoned out and not realized that he'd gone AWOL. Naturally, a few natural disasters could have occured, and she wouldn't have noticed ... but that was beside the point! Collins was missing. Upon further investigation; which involved much craning of the neck as she was too tired to move, he wasn't making coffee, either. Or burning old homework assignments he'd kept from when he taught. Which was a strange habit that Angel had been meaning to talk to Collins about, because it just made the room hotter and was it really nessisary to vent his anger so ... violently? Apparently Collins thought so but ... I digress. The fact remained that Collins was not there. And he was usually there. Unless they were ... well ... Otherwise engaged. And unless he was making coffee or burning things.   
  
Interesting.   
  
Hadn't it been a sweltering, humid and otherwise disgustingly hot day in the middle of summer, Angel would likely have been more energized. Alas, it was and he wasn't. "Collins?" He repeated, peeling himself off the cushions of the couch and sitting up. Ick. And perhaps if the drag queen's brain cells hadn't been stunted by the amount of liquor he'd consumed the night before, he would have realized that Collins was likely in his room, sleeping off his hangover. The bottles that littered the floor were quickly ignored until he stood up, took a step and promptly tripped over one of them. Ow. Sniffing dramatically and wailing, before remember that there wasn't a Collins to pick him up and ... kiss it better, Angel sulked. Whilst sitting on the floor. Glaring at the carpet, he noted that it needed a cleaning. Yeack. Unfortunately Collins was the only one who would be able to get money by legal means because no one seemed to want to hire a drag queen. He supposed that it wasn't exactly a good idea to go to job openings dress in a tiny pink dress and six-inch platforms. Well. They certainly hadn't had any sense of fashion at all. Obviously. Either that or they were jealous. Smirking at this thought, Angel decided that jealousy was indeed the reason that he'd never been hired. Hmmph. Just because they didn't have the flair it took to be so well-dressed ... Well, they couldn't be helped. Angel looked around to see if Collins was around to vent this new revelation to. Where was he, anyway?  
  
Damnit!   
  
Again, he remembered that Collins wasn't there.   
  
"Coooollins!" Angel called out in a sing-song voice, as if the way he spoke would bring back his lover. Hmm. Apparently not. Standing up with great effort and glaring malvolently at the bottle he'd tripped over, he stumbled over to the make-shift kitchen to make coffee. Highly disturbed that Collins wasn't going to be able to do it for him. Collins seemed to have a strange sort of fetish for making coffee. (Of course, everything between the two of them had a sexual meaning. Not that this was bad, of course. The fact that the Anarchist only had a knack for coffee-making they were perfectly oblivious to.) Hmm. Rubbing the back of his neck with a hand, Angel stared confusedly at the coffee maker. How utterly complex and odd it was.   
  
What in bloody hell did FFO mean!?   
  
Of course, he'd never bothered to look at the buttons when he and Collins had purchased the thng, and thusly didn't know that all the buttons' labels had been printed backwards. Collins did. Which was why Collins made the coffee and Angel didn't. Shaking his head, he dumped some coffee mix stuff into the machine and fumbled with some buttons. Drip. Drip. Drip. Coffee. Yeah. How boring. Angel whined again and banged open the cubbord. Nothing. Slamming it back closed, he glared at it.   
  
"Stupid ... innanimate object ... thing ... Grr."   
  
After much more banging around in the kitchen, which didn't really result in anything but the pounding in Angel's head increasing, the coffee was finished. Well, it looked like it was. Having never made coffee before in his life; he wasn't quite sure what coffee was supposed to look like before it was drunken. Hmm. Yanking the pitcher thing out of the machine, he squealed when some of the rather scalding liquid splashed to the floor and splattered his jeans. Shit! Shitshitshitshit! Coffee was hot! Very, very hot! Ooow!! Scowling and wincing at his luck, Angel poured himself a glass of what-looked-like-coffee-but-very-well-might-not-be-because-he-didn't-know-what-the-hell-coffee-was-supposed-to-look-like and slid into a chair. The cup was dented and scratched, but so far hadn't shattered into a million pieces. This was good. This was an improvement. The coffee actually looked normal! Pouring some milk and sugar into the mix would probably help, anyway. He liked his coffee dark... but not that dark. Just like he liked his ...   
  
Okay. Not going to go there.   
  
At any rate, it looked normal. And it smelled normal... Sticking his fingers - and quite forgetting that it was nearly boiling - into the coffee, instantly pulled them out again and hissed in pain. Well, at least that meant that it felt normal, as well. That only meant that it would taste normal, right?   
  
Wrong!   
  
(This is the world of fanfiction, so nothing will go right. Duh.)  
  
Alas, Angel was completely oblivious to this. Utterly, and happily oblivious ... until he tasted it.   
  
And recovered from his hangover immediately.   
  
A sputter was followed by a scream of rage.   
  
Then the sound of what looked, smelled, and felt like coffee splashing against the wall as the chipped and very dented cup shattered into a million (And ONE) pieces.   
  
"Stupid freaking shit masquerading as COFFEE!"   
  
Stopping his bare foot against the ground which (of course) happened to be where a shard of the glass had landed, he wailed. Ow! Stupid glass! Stupid coffee! Near tears of frusturation; Angel snatched a pair of twesers from the counter where he kept things like that, because you never know when you'd need them. (This was also where he happened to keep his lipstick, blush, glitter and a condom. Because you just never know! And a drag queen is always prepared. Right? Of course right.) Sniffling quietly, he closed the twesers around the glass, closed his eyes and - pulled!   
  
"Ow! Fucking ow! Ooow!" Now glaring at the splinters of glass that were once a coffee cup mixed with a vile brown liquid that was certainly not coffee, Angel stalked - rather one-footedly into his room down the hall. Sniffing dramatically, though validly along the way. Where the HELL was Collins?! He was hungover, too! If he was out and about, then it just wasn't bloody fair! He didn't tell Angel, if he was! He usually told Angel. Of course, when Collins returned home, he would scream at him for a while before screwing him into the floor.   
  
Hmm.   
  
Floor.   
  
The carpet really needed cleaning.   
  
Better find Collins first. Then carpets would be cleaned.   
  
Pulling on pink-striped Adidas, Angel sighed. He really didn't feel like going in drag today. Of course, this went against everything he was - but he wasn't feeling up to walking around central park for hours in heels. Looking for his missing lover. Pulling off the shirt that was still sticking to his back with disgustingly icky sweat, he eyed his closet. Okay. Problem. He didn't have much that wasn't drag. Oi. Finally, after much cursing and throwing random articles of clothing out of the closet, he decided on a white muscle tee of Collins' that he'd accidentally shrunken in the wash, and a pair of baggy jeans that were also probably Collins' but he could exactly remember the last time he'd worn them. Hmmm.   
  
Not that Collins wore much around him.   
  
But that was beside the point.   
  
Though, now that he thought of it, those jeans had been used rather interestingly last time they ...   
  
Again.   
  
Beside the point.   
  
But they were very ....  
  
"No!" Angel shook his head; talking rather to himself than to the prominant lack of a Collins to talk to. And other things. But there wouldn't be anything like -that- again if he couldn't find Collins. Horrified at even the thought that that could possibly happen, Angel wailed again. Irked that no one could hear him. Hmm. Grabbing his wallet from the dresser by the bed, he bounced out of the apartment. A coffee-y, glassy mess still on the floor of the kitchen.  
  
Oh, well. Collins was better at clea-DAMNIT.   
  
No Collins.   
  
Therein lay the problem.   
  
Utterly frusterated; and almost glad that the coffee had tasted so horrid that he'd been sobered up.   
  
Correction.   
  
He would be thankful once he got that disgusting taste out of his mouth! 


End file.
